He kisses you on the lips and says good-bye in a whisper. As you hear the door click behind him you are suddenly wide awake, aware of the morning stillness in his apartment. This is the first time he has left you alone in his apartment after seven months of dating him, sleeping over occasionally at his apartment on the weekends, and you stretch your legs out in the bed, tensing the sleep out of your muscles. You feel the space where he slept last night next to you, still warm, you think, then run the palm of your hand over the flat empty space of the sheet and draw his pillow up to your face, breathing in the remaining scent of him. You think a moment about last night's sex, feeling yourself getting hard. You play with yourself for a moment, slipping your hand beneath your underwear, stroking yourself, then cupping your balls. You sigh loudly and get out of bed.

In the kitchen you make coffee, fiddle with yourself in your underwear some more, wanting to keep yourself semi-erect and edgy as long as you can. You sit at the table and eat a cranberry muffin he bought for you at the grocery store yesterday. You look at the digital clock on the VCR. It reads 9:17. You calculate he won't be back for another four hours — gone to his daughter's graduation in Connecticut. You don't know what amazes you more — the fact that he is forty-nine years old and has a daughter old enough to graduate high school, or the fact that he is still married and not even filing for a divorce. You glance outside the window as you chew on your muffin, happy as you taste the burst of a cranberry in your mouth. You stare at the trees in the park across the street, the tops of which are starting to turn yellow and red. He says he's gay, though he won't admit it to anyone except you and the tricks he meets at his favorite bar on the east side. He's not told his soon-to-be-ex-wife the reason why their marriage is ending, not told his daughter why he no longer lives at home. He has no plans to come out on the job, no plans, either, for you, except to have sex when his schedule permits. He doesn't want a relationship, after all, you remind yourself — only someone to have a good time with. That's all you want out of this too, you tell yourself, but then you remind yourself you know that's not true. You've spent the last two decades of your adult life looking for a lover — and just when you found someone you want to fall in love with — just when you are ready — he tells you he wants to date other people and doesn't want to settle down.

The story of my life, you think with a big sigh. You get up from the table. You wash your coffee mug in the kitchen sink and place it in the dish rack. You wonder why he left you alone in his apartment — after months and months of insinuating that he was dating other men, that you weren't the only distraction in his life, that he knew you were the possessive and jealous type, did he think that you had changed after all that time? Or has he changed, you wonder? Is he ready for a relationship now? No, you remind yourself again. It's sex, not a relationship. You're just fuck buddies who go to the movies together.

At least it's good, you think. The sex. At least you find him sexy. At least he appreciates you appreciating him. At least it makes you feel good to make him feel good. Well, most of the time. You walk out of the kitchen and again are drawn to the view from his window. The light is bright this morning and you cast your eyes downward, following the tiny figure of a jogger in an orange sweatshirt as he enters the park from the street. Before he left you alone you had made up your mind you wouldn't snoop through his things — you knew enough about him already, and what you suspected of him you didn't need confirmed. You're thirty-nine years old. You're a mature, open, honest gay man. You don't need to snoop through a married boyfriend's stuff. You don't need your jealousy piqued, your possessiveness inflamed. You already have enough problems with this pseudo-relationship — his age, his marriage, his money, his ego.

You suddenly smack yourself in the head with the palm of you hand, listening to the sound it makes. Why, why, why are you here? you ask yourself. Are you that desperate for attention? That needy for any kind of relationship? Yes, you answer. You're such a fool. And Keith's dead. So are Dennis and Tony and Greg and a lot of those other boys you used to play with. Peter thinks he is in a relationship now. And then there is Jack. Emotionally unavailable Jack.

You turn on the television and check the weather on Channel 1 — the box in the corner reads 49 degrees. You turn up the sound so that you can hear it above the stereo and wait for the newscaster to read the forecast, running your finger across the head of your cock. The newscaster predicts that it may reach the high 60s today. You stand in front of the TV playing with yourself, looking out again at the view, this time looking at the rows of buildings that frame the other end of the park. You think about him sucking your cock, then think about sucking his cock, then imagine him on the couch, his legs apart and you feel yourself grow harder, frustrated. You fight off the urge to masturbate — he's coming back, you know, and he'll want to have sex — and so will you. You surf through the channels with the remote control, lingering for a moment on a wrestling program, admiring the body of one of the wrestlers — thick and muscley about the arms and shoulders. You wish for a moment he had a better body. Wished he was younger and better looking. You wish he was the wrestler. You're still hard and you squeeze your cock now, stroke it back and forth really good a few times, then click the TV off with the remote just when you're ready to want more. You switch on the stereo and begin stretching your neck, twist your waist back and forth and side to side until you feel loose, supple, and awake.

You turn the stereo up louder and wander into the bedroom. You slip on his sneakers, hoping you'll stretch them out of shape. You laugh. Your feet are bigger than his. But he has the bigger waist. You look at yourself in the mirror over his dresser. You look better than you have in the last ten years. You've lost fifteen pounds since you've started dating him — anxiety over trying to make it work for you, too, you know. But it has made you look younger, more attractive, you think. You certainly notice you get more looks now on the street. And you never walk out of a bar alone these days. You stare at your waist. Twenty-nine inches. You can even see the muscles in your stomach. You couldn't when you were twenty-nine years old.

You turn on the treadmill in the corner of the room, start walking at a slow pace. You turn up the speed, punch the reset button. Your erection drops off fast as the pace of your feet gets faster and faster. Even if he doesn't want you someone else will. Even if this ends there will be someone else. He's not the only person you're seeing. Your little joke on him. As if he even cared, you think. You walk and walk, noticing the furniture in his bedroom. You remember when they delivered the dresser. You suggested he get the mission-style headboard because it would work good with handcuffs. You were with him when he bid on the Hockney at Christie's.

You notice an unfamiliar envelope on the top of the dresser and it disturbs you. You don't know what it is. You think about stopping the treadmill to snoop, but you don't. You keep walking, turning the speed up even faster.

He'll never lose the weight, you remind yourself. He eats too much junk — snacks and cookies throughout the day, every night potato chips, chocolate ice cream, and a carafe of wine before going to bed. How does he do it? Consume so much food? You don't even have an appetite anymore. All you want is to feel good about something. All you ask from him is some kind of affection, which is the last thing he is willing to give.

You stop after thirty-one minutes and two-and-a-half miles. You are drenched in sweat. Your cock is small, wet. You get off the treadmill and check the envelope on top of the dresser. It is the invitation to his daughter's graduation ceremony. You look at the clock. Two hours and forty minutes left. He could get back early, though. You lie on the floor and look at the ceiling, then force yourself through one hundred crunches. You roll over and lie on your stomach, lift yourself up into a position for pushups. Your feet slide against his polished wooden floor. You inch your way down till the heels of your feet are against the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You do fifty push-ups and then rest. You make a note in your head to remind him to invest in a chin-up bar. He will never do it, you know. It would ruin the aesthetics of his apartment. You do fifty more push-ups, purposely banging your heels against his dresser drawer. That's where he keeps the dildos and lube. Where the condoms come from. Where he stashes the magazines he picks up at the bar.

You roll over and open the drawer and look inside. Oh hell, you think, you've started snooping. Just find it all out and get it over with. You've seen all the toys in this drawer before. Three sizes of dildos — thin, regular, and extra big with a double head. Nothing is new that you can tell except the recent issue of Next which is dated this weekend. That means he went to the bar this week.

You close the drawer and sit on the bed. You untie his sneakers and throw them on top of the treadmill. You open the top drawer of the nightstand. You've never seen him open this drawer. On top are his pay stubs. You read the year-to-date earnings column. You estimate he makes close to $400,000 a year. You are stunned. You had no idea he made that much. He did say once that he made more money than a doctor. Then you get angry. You pay for half of everything you do together — the movies, the theater tickets, the occasional restaurant, the trip last month to Washington, D.C. You barely make $25,000 a year. You try to shrug it off, but you can't. He once told you he would like you more if you made more money. Jerk, you think. Pig. All he's after is sex. All he wants is a good time. He's just using you. Using you for the sex. And you're not even getting paid for it.

You look through the rest of the drawer. There are scraps of paper with numbers and addresses written on them. You read each one. John at a Chelsea phone number, Paul on East 80th Street. There is another pile of business cards he must have gotten from tricks at the bar. You become perturbed because there are so many of them. You even find one of your old boyfriends in his pile. Small world, you try to console yourself, then laugh because you think they both deserve one another. They're both jerks, you tell yourself. Both nothing but pigs.

In the back of the drawer you notice a membership card to the East Side Baths. You look at the expiration date and are relieved that it expired one month before you started dating him. What a pig I've found, you tell yourself again. Why would you want to be in a relationship with a sex junkie? Why has this affair lasted this long?

You shake your head. That's not what you want. You wonder if he will ever want to settle down. He was upfront when you confronted him with it after you had been dating each other for six weeks. He said he just got out of a twenty-two-year marriage, why would he want to settle down with someone right away? You remind yourself that it was your choice to continue this. Then you remind yourself that since he cheated on his wife when he was married — of course he's going to cheat around on a boyfriend. Then you tell yourself that "cheat" is the wrong word. There's nothing going on between the two of you, after all. At least not in his direction. It's just sex. Just dating. You close the drawer. You don't want to know any more. You try not to get upset. Don't make him into someone he's not going to be.

Pigs, you think. They're all pigs. Rich men, fat men, gay men. They're all jerks. Even yourself. When did you ever have a decent boyfriend? When were you ever a decent one yourself? You never told him about your on-going thing with Jack, never mentioned the ad you placed in HX two months ago, never mentioned the string of blind dates you had, never mentioned whom you met on the phone lines. But he provoked it, you tell yourself. Didn't he make you look by reminding you of your every imperfection over and over? That you are far from the perfect boyfriend for him? That you weren't rich enough or young enough or cute enough or hot enough? And weren't you just hoping to find someone better than him?

You go into the kitchen and get a drink of water. You look at your watch. Ninety more minutes. You could read the book you brought, look through the notes of your novel that you think will never be finished. Suddenly you are aware that you will never have any money. You're a gay writer, you write gay stories, you write about gay life. You will never have this kind of money. You look back at the view of Central Park. If you give him up you will never see this view again. But you would never feel this lousy again, either.

When you first started dating him all you did was have sex. Sex in his new bed, sex in the kitchen, sex on the ottoman, sex on the floor. He was so cheap, he didn't even take you out for dinner. You wonder for a moment if you had his kind of money would you be dating someone like him? No, you think. You would be out of here quick. But you don't like him for just his money. And you want him for something more than just the sex.

You remember how much you have in your wallet. Two dollars. You just paid the rent on your fifth-floor walk up in Hell's Kitchen. You're broke. You don't even have enough to go out for a sandwich. Instead you walk into the bathroom and rinse your face. You open the medicine chest and count the number of new toothbrushes on the shelf. Four. None gone. None of the packages have been opened since you were last here. You know he keeps them for tricks. Just like he does the stack of disposable razors. You pull down a razor he has saved for you and lather your face with his shaving cream. You smile at yourself in the mirror. Fool, you think. You're such a clown. At least you can pretend to be happy. Maybe you should have been an actor after all and not a writer.

You shave and then brush your teeth. You look at yourself in the mirror, admire your waist, flex your biceps, then think: Treat me nice when I'm poor and I'll love you when I'm rich.

You walk out of the bathroom and into his closet. You smell his shirts — freshly laundered and ironed cotton button-down. You touch his jackets, wave your fingers through the rack of ties, then thumb through them for the one he bought when you went together to Barney's. You play with yourself again and realize that you are already hard.

You try on one of his shirts. It fits nicely, but you don't even contemplate trying on his pants; there's a five inch difference between your waists. You take the shirt off and look at yourself in the mirror nailed to the back of the closet door. You strike a pose. You run your hand up and down your stomach. You cup your balls, twirling the ends of your pubic hair. You would never shave your balls. You like it natural. You think about the times you've shaved his balls, the erection he gets as he's handled by you. You smile and then shake your head. Where is all this going, you wonder? Right into therapy?

You decide to explore some more. He once told you he kept cash hidden in the apartment, out of sight of his wife's lawyer. You wonder if you can find it. Suddenly, the prospect of this new game seizes you. You open his dresser drawers, looking beneath his underwear, between his T-shirts, inside his socks, through his shorts and under his slacks. You're obsessed with finding some money, any money, even if it's just a dollar bill or some coins he uses for laundry. You're not going to steal it, you just want to discover it, count it, touch it, know where it is because he makes such a big issue of how much he has and how little you have. Instead, you find a book of erotic stories under his jeans. You thumb through it. Nothing inside so you put it back. Maybe he's cash poor, you think as you close the drawer. Maybe he's just a portfolio — all stocks and assets.

The bottom drawer surprises you, however, when you open it — there is a row of neatly stacked videos. You pick one up. It is The Best of Joey Stefano. You look at the photo of the guy on the cover. Dark hair, dark eyes, unshaven pouty looks. You've seen him on the reruns on Robin Byrd's cable show a couple of times. Didn't he die, you think? Didn't he have a drug problem?

You put the video back in the drawer. You lift up another one. Same guy on the cover, full body shot, tattoo on his bicep. Joey Stefano in Tattoo You. You look at Joey. You look at yourself in the mirror. No contest, you think. He's younger. Hotter. Better arms. Better ass. You feel defeated. You put that video back and lift up one more. Prince Charming, with Joey Stefano's name in the cast list. As you turn it over an envelope falls to the ground. You pick it up and notice there is a phone number written on the front. 213 area code. California. You look inside the envelope, opening it carefully where it has been taped shut. It is full of small black hairs. Pubic hair, you think. An envelope full of pubic hair. It can't be his — his is gray. It must be Joey Stefano's pubic hair. You have discovered an envelope full of Joey Stefano's pubic hair.

What a pig you've found out you're dating. You had a big fight once over the porn. He wanted to watch it during sex. You wanted a little more attention from him. You sigh, aware that you will never be his ideal type — he's told you that, in fact. But you've never insulted him, however, never told him that you think he could lose a little weight, go to gym a little more, that the bald spot at the back of his head really does reflect light. But then you're easier than he is. You're not so specific when it comes to men and body types and hair. All you want is someone to care — they don't have to look like a body builder or a wrestler or the bouncer you once saw in front of a club. Okay, so you're jealous, you think. Deal with it. Get over it. Accept it and move on.

You go into the bathroom and flush Joey Stefano's pubic hair down the toilet. Then you open the medicine cabinet and find his nail scissors. You take off your underwear. You snip off some of your pubic hair. It is the same color as Joey's. You put it in the envelope and return it to the drawer with the videos. You kick the drawer closed with your foot, hoping you've made a dent in the wood.

You lie back on the bed again and stare at the ceiling, playing with your cock. How do you make things work, you wonder. You don't want to give up. You're not a quitter. Something is going on with this man if he trusts you enough to leave you behind in his apartment. You look at the photo of his daughter on his dresser. You could always blackmail him, you think. You could earn your fortune by threatening to expose him to his wife and his boss.

Grow up, you tell yourself. He is his own boss. And you're too old to be a double-crossing boy toy. You would never do that. You're too gay yourself, too out, too proud to even think about doing something like that. What you want is to make something work, make this relationship work. But what if this is the wrong one? What if you've picked the wrong guy again?

You squeeze your cock, rub your fist over the head. You feel yourself getting hard. You close your eyes, feel the muscles of your chest tense. You think about the guy you saw in the sweater department at Bloomingdale's yesterday. Black hair, great arms. Better looking than Joey Stefano, you laugh to yourself. You imagine him going down on you. The guy at Bloomingdale's. Not Joey. You lift your legs up in the air, wet a finger in your mouth, then begin to play with your asshole. You're hot, bothered, frustrated, and worked up. You pump your cock. Harder and harder. You push two fingers into your ass. Move them in and out as you work your fist up and down your cock. When you shoot you almost hit your nipple. You open your eyes and calm your breathing. You feel mean and nasty. You take some of your come and rub in onto his comforter. You're such a pig, you think. Why are all gay men such pigs? You're no better than he is. You get up off the bed and go to the bathroom.

You piss and then step into the shower. You use his soap and shampoo. You find a clean towel and dry yourself off with it, just to make another one dirty for him to have to wash. You use his cologne and deodorant. You dry your hair with his hair dryer. You smell like him, you think, as you admire yourself in his mirror. He's all over you.

You look at the clock. He'll be back in about five minutes. Your heart begins to beat faster. You take a deep breath and hurriedly put on your jeans and sweatshirt, sitting on the couch and lacing up your boots. You get your jacket out of the closet. You take a last look at his view.

Then you leave. You open the door and just walk out, listening to it slam behind you. He will never find your jealousy, anger, and obsession again, you decide. And he will not find you in his apartment when he returns.

©2002 Jameson Currier - Contributor's Bio